


Touching the divine

by FreyaLor



Category: French History RPF
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Semi-Public Sex, The blowjob of Louis' life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: Louis cannot care about theatre. Fortunately for him - or not- his devoted, yet mentally unstable First Minister has a distraction for him.Porn wrapped into a very thin pancake of plot.





	Touching the divine

I don’t even know what this play is about. Bellerose has been speaking about it for hours this morning, though, but I’m afraid I was spending more time inspecting the wooden structure of Mathelot’s plaster decor by then than listening to him. Theatre is lost to me, just like chamber music or scenery painting. They should know that already. They should stop trying.

By the low, mournful notes of the actresses crying on their knees, I guess it’s a tragedy. Something Greek, I suppose, since everybody only talks of Greek mythology those days, to the point that half of my portraits are picturing me in allegoric togas by now. I have no idea if I like it or not. Fashion is lost to me, like poetry and lace. They should know that already.

They should stop trying.

The actress mourns, the music weeps, and though I am glad to be left alone in my first-floor lodge above the stage, there’s this annoying thing about theatre. Everyone is looking at me.

Mostly because those performers are sponsored by the Royal Treasury, and this is their new play. Every spectacle financed by the Crown has to be premiered in the Louvres, and my appraisal of its quality will determine, among other things, the future of the actors’ pensions. So despite music and loud crying, the focus point of all attention is not, and never will be what happens on the stage. It is, as always, the slightest twitches of my face.

_ Fools. _

They think I give a single damn. They think I care in any way. They think I hear the rhymes, they think I enjoy the music. They think I try to understand why those women in togas are crying, while my opinion of this nonsense, the continuity of my patronage, and the well-thoughts compliments I’ll be distributing to the comedians are already written and composed by someone who isn’t even there.

The Duke Du Plessis Richelieu.

I take a furtive look at the empty seat to my right, where he should be sitting, sweep a sullen look upon the crowd, trying not to search for him, and go back to the play, unconvinced.

How could I even remotely find pleasure in this hermetic, excruciating show without him at my side? When I lose track of the play, he always fills the void. When I don’t know what to think, he softly suggests words. When the rhymes get too intricate, he repeats them in plainer words, and when all of this becomes too much of a bore, he lays his hand on mine, right there on my thigh since the lodge’s balcony is hiding us from the waist down, giving me shivers theatre will never spark in me.

I let out a frustrated growl. I hate those  _ moods _ of his. He should be here.  _ He should be here. _

But he has taken a tremendous amount of work upon himself those last months, it’s true, with those trade routes to be negotiated with Sweden, Germanic states or Italy. As treaties and propositions came and went through his study I gradually saw less and less of him, until I found myself left with nothing more than botched appearances where I could only witness the state of his health spiraling down, and the speed of his thoughts rising high.

It’s been five days I haven’t seen him at all by now. From what I’ve heard, he’s in a dreadful state of agitation and strain again, and though he has an army of clerks to help him, the overanxious bastard refuses all support.

I met Joseph yesterday night on my way to my apartments, and he told me his Eminence had locked himself up in his study with twelve foreign delegates of four different nations, his mind set on the insane idea of yanking a trade treaty out of their hands in one single battle, all of it, of course, absolutely on his own. Rolling my eyes at the absurdity of it, I started to stride to the Palais Cardinal to order my Beast to take a break or accept assistance at least, but the rabid monk bloody  _ begged _ me not to go.

If eventually I stopped and turned around, it’s not because I obey to Joseph. I am Louis de France, I obey to no one.

If I froze and looked back, it’s because of the complete fear in the Capuchin’s voice.

He was obviously terrified of me confronting the monster Richelieu surely had become, though I truly have no idea which one of us he was trying to protect from the other. I didn’t share his fear, not at all, for I knew my Beast even in that state would never think of hurting me, but I also remembered all too well the machine of destruction Armand had turned into in La Rochelle, and the prospect of meeting that nightmare once more didn’t fill me with joy.

So I didn’t go, and now I think about it, I should have. He must be burning out like a candle out there in his study again, working himself to exhaustion, suffering through the rage of his inner storm while I sit here idly in front of that useless staged jabbering, and no matter what Joseph said, I should have gone there and put an end to Armand’s self-destruction, with brutal force if I needed to.

Images of my hands around his soft, white, frail neck suddenly surge into my mind, and I shift upon my chair, flustered, coughing in unease. Immediately, the crowd starts whispering and muttering, oh for fuck’s sake,  _ no, it has nothing to do with the play, you morons. _

I let out a shaking breath and plaster a blank mask on my face, focusing on the four soldiers in shining uniforms who just stepped on the stage. Their weapons look so fake it’s heartbreaking, and I almost open my mouth to comment on it, but the seat next to mine is still empty.

He should be there.  _ He should be there _ .

God, I miss him.

This formal wear of mine is irritating, bothersome and heavy, the ermine cloak perfectly pointless indoors, but I’m thankful for the military stick in my hand, carelessly hanging one inch above the floor. I am supposed to bang it against the parquet if I don’t like the play, but right now, clenching my fist around it is a most welcomed, inconspicuous release of my frustration.

I watch the soldiers march and sing for a few more minutes, wondering how the Hell I am going to stand one more hour of this, when I hear a soft rustling sound to my right. I glance towards the curtains masking the entrance to my lodge and nearly gasp in instinctive joy.

_ Armand. _

But then I notice the redness around his pupils, the ugly purple underneath his eyes, the way his whole body seems to radiate sheer power and I remember the monster of La Rochelle. My relief dies before it’s even spoken, and I sit unmoving, watching him with wary eyes.

There’s something mighty, something frightening in him, like storm clouds colliding on a summer night, but I don’t truly mind. His stance is cold , his jaw is working, his face has lost all softness, all humility, and his hands don’t look like they could reach out to me, but I can live with that.

What I can’t tolerate is the way he’s staring down at me.

Like I am harmless, like I am supine.

Like he could touch the Divine _ , and I am only a man. _

I clench my teeth and frown, snapping my fingers at him to make it clear I do not like his attitude, but he only chuckles, nonchalantly pulling a rolled sheet out of his cloak and presenting it to me with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. I don’t need to ask to know it’s the trade treaty. I don’t need explanation to understand every word upon that sheet is bent to his very will, and to be honest I don’t think I care. My Beast is defying me, and my whole skin is tingling with fury. I yank the paper away from his hand and slip in in my doublet, muttering half-hearted gratitude in a generous attempt to make his eyes on me return to meeker hues.

They don’t.

The play is still running, and there are two hundred courtiers watching my every move right now, but I am still tempted to get up and slap some respect into that arrogant face. I am his King, his master and his liege, I am owed respect, and though racket or scandal would not serve any purpose,  _ I swear to God, monster in silk, that I’ll wash this smug smile off your mouth with your own blood. _

I tighten my grip on my stick, hook my stare into his and call his name, warning, threatening, but low enough not to raise alarm.

-“Armand.” I spit.

I see the delirious gleam in his stare shaken by a shudder he can’t repress, and I feel something in him wanting,  _ needing _ to submit, but his hands remain violent and nervous, his face dark and exalted. Some kind of inner fight twists and turns under his skin, and it has the strangest of outcomes as my Beast abruptly sinks on his knees alright, but keeping his devilish, brazen eyes on me.

Part of me exults as he crawls closer underneath the balcony, hidden from the courtiers’ sight until his hand grazes my thigh, but I not enough of a fool to think him so easily subdued. I still don’t like his grin at all when he whispers a few of my titles like the most poisonous of endearments. For a moment, he just stays there, his hands on my thigh, his chin on his hands, looking up at me with hazed mischief, and though my guts are still clenching in alarm, I can’t help feeling lulled by the comfort of his kneeling.

So I distractedly gaze back towards the stage, where one of the desperate maidens is now in conversation with her father. Richelieu’s presence has passed unnoticed by the attendance but a few courtiers might have seen my trouble, because the murmurs are higher now, and I see Bellerose in the front row stealing anxious glances up towards me.

I sigh. As if I gave a single damn. As if I cared in any way.

Giving out a quick smile, I amiably nod in Bellerose’s direction to reassure the crowd.

A few praises to my name rise and fall in the air between the stage and my lodge, then the courtiers calm down. I keep my smile for a few more seconds, but as the slender hands shift upwards on my thigh, it dissolves into a gasp. Careful not to move my head too much, I look down to see  _ him _ , kneeling magnificent in a pool of red silk, pristine fur around his shoulders, eyelids low and trickster grin, palming my crotch without a trace of shame.

-“What the Hell are you doing?” I hiss between my teeth, and he just holds my gaze, slowly licking his lips.

Wait, he’s not thinking of _ \- oh, God. _

Instinctively, one of my hands flies down to grab his thin wrists and stop him, but the filthy snake doesn’t seem to be distressed at all. His fingers still apply just a bit of pressure, and because it’s him, because he  _ knows _ , my breath hitches sharply, and he bloody  _ laughs. _

Like I am harmless, like I am supine.

Like he could touch the Divine _ , and I am only a man. _

Furious at him just as much as at myself, I growl ominously, tightening my grip around his frail hands, hard enough to hurt, almost enough to break.

-“You  _ bastard _ \- “ I croak.

-“Tell me to stop.” He breathes, his voice barely rattled by pain.

I blink, dumbfounded, inspecting his face for a while, watching storms and whirlwinds there.

-“… what?” I stammer.

-“Order me to stop and I will.” He promises, disturbingly calm despite his fiery eyes. 

And for a dreadful minute the words are there in my mouth, irate, righteous, ready to be spat at his face with force and disdain, but meanwhile, the ungodly creature takes time to wet his lips with a pink, glistening tongue, and his gesture is so sinful I feel myself twitching in my pants, so hard I am sure he felt it too.

I know what he can do with that silver tongue of his, I know the heat, the slickness of his mouth, I know how skilled the devil is, and before I can stop myself, pictures are flooding my mind again. I almost moan out loud. The words are there, ready to be spat, but I end up only staring at him, panting in arousal, and I hate the fact that I won’t say a thing, and I hate the fact that I release his hands. He triumphs, of course, upon my willing defeat, and snarling in lustful anger, I turn my eyes back to the stage.

The father lies dead. No idea why. As if I cared.

I feel his deft fingers untying my pants, and I gulp around a knot in my throat, trying to force my face blank, praying the courtiers won’t notice, horrified and disgusted by the obvious fact that I just put both of us in danger, and  _ I bloody like that. _ His hands gently grab my thighs again, feeling their thickness with palpable pleasure, and as his warm breath ghosts over the tip of my cock I hiss a muffled curse. He doesn’t even have to touch me, all he has to do is let out a few of those low, modulated moans of his, and I am hard in seconds, demented by want.

I steal a glance at him. His eyes are still blurry and wild, haughty and proud like they were on the ruins of La Rochelle. He’s on his knees between my legs alright, but only because that’s where he wants to be. His delicate hand is softly encircling my cock, giving it a few expert strokes, but no matter how eager he is to swallow me whole, he’s still looking at me as if I was someone to play games with.

Harmless, supine,  _ nothing divine. _

I grab a fistful of his hair and give him a rough pull, I am your King, you master, your liege. Obedience is owed to me. He winces between pleasure and pain, the distant fight coming back in his stare, but something in his mind is screaming louder than his own nature, and he whispers again, sly, malicious:

-“Tell me to stop.”

I growl, yank at his hair once more, but his thumb circles around my tip, spreading fluid on my whole shaft, and all I let out is a moan. Startled, I press my mouth against my fist holding the military stick, and he laughs softly again before he lowers himself to engulf my cock in his hot, clever mouth. My legs have a violent jerk, my boots scratching the floor, and I close my eyes in raw bliss.

It takes a while before I can force them open again, and if I had little interest for the play before, it’s completely gone now. I only stare at some detail of the decors and feel his tongue inside his mouth drawing curves around my shaft. My hand in his hair make me sense every movement of his head, and he’s done that to me so many times before I don’t even need to have a look. I know exactly what they look like, his reddening lips around my tip, his quick fingers underneath my balls. I know his eyes never close, I know his hair gets disheveled, I know he welcomes the unconscious jolts of my hips like trophies of war.

It takes a lot not to cry out, and the bastard gives me no mercy. He’s hollowing his cheeks, humming around me, pushing my pleasure higher without a pause, without a hitch. My hands shake, both around the stick and into his hair, and at some point I have to bite into my own knuckles.

He doesn’t falter, he doesn’t stop,  _ and God, he’s good _ , he’s so bloody good. He knows every inch of me, every sound, every twitch, and that’s the point isn’t it, nasty snake, it’s exactly the point. Even from where he is, kneeling on the floor with his mouth filled with my cock, he’s challenging my willpower, cornering me against a wall. He’s servicing me alright, he’s pleasuring me just fine, but who exactly controls the other, I guess, is  _ exactly  _ his point.

The soldiers marched back on the stage, and started chanting a hymn of war, thank God, because as his rhythm goes slower and deeper, I can’t stop the moans escaping my throat anymore. I let out a low helpless grunt at every rub by now, my hips desperately trying to reverse the motion and let it be me ramming into his mouth, but I’m too distracted, too aroused to even give it a proper try.

My vision blurs, my breath almost wheezes, and I have barely any care if the courtiers notice or not. I’m high with pleasure, ignited by danger and the filthiness of what we are doing, and no matter how I hate my own bliss, it is starting to rip me apart.

Music and voices are twirling in my head, all lights and colors blurred in lazy patches, and like it or not, my moans are getting loud. There is fear dawning in the way my fist tightens in his hair, urging him to quicken the pace, go harder, let me come. There is fear, but that’s not enough. The bastard wants panic. As he laps lasciviously around my slit I do cry out, and in my jump of sheer terror, panic he gets,  _ oh God, they’re all notice, the fool I have been _ .

I think I hear him chuckling, but I can’t dwell on it, because he just moved faster, and despite my anguish my mind blanks out in pleasure. In four last strokes he burns me alive, and I close my eyes tight around a tear or two, coming hard into his mouth, so intense I cannot breathe. Behind my fist, my lips are opened for a cry that won’t be heard, because I only have strength left for a long high-pitched gasp. It lasts for far too long, enough for my heart to falter, and even now, the monster in silk still gives me no mercy.

He milks me empty, sucks me dry, and only lets go of me when every drop of my seed has been dutifully licked clean.

Only then, in a hazy blur I feel him gently tucking me back in and closing the ties of my pants, and I open my eyes on a breathless gulp. I am persuaded I’ll only be seeing an empty stage and two hundred shocked faces turned up towards me whispers and shouts already rising, spiraling fast into disaster.

But as I blink the last waves of bliss away from my mind, there’s only the play’s final dance gathering all the actors around a colorful wedding banquet, and the audience is gently swaying to the rhythm, nodding in appreciation, hardly even looking up anymore. Bellerose at the front row is beaming in joy, already congratulated by his fellow comedians and a few courtiers.

I take in the view for a moment, just to make sure it is real, and when the safety of my surroundings pervades my hazy senses, I slowly unclench my fingers, one by one, out of his hair and look down at my Red Beast.

He’s still kneeling on the floor, a bit more slouched, maybe, and as I watch he carelessly rests his head upon my knee. I’d find time to be furious about the return of that smug smile, if his lips weren’t red and swollen with what he has just done to me. So I simply use the rounded tip of the military stick to brush his delicate jaw, because yes, I am mad at him, but somehow beyond the arrogance sickness sometimes dictates to his unstable mind, he’s still there, my shadow, my Moon, and he still won me a profitable treaty.

I clear my throat and open my mouth to insult him no doubt, with a hint of fondness he wouldn’t fail to catch, but I am cut short by the loud, final notes of the play, and my head snaps up, because I know this is the moment every stare will be upon me again.

Indeed, a tense, heavy silence has suddenly filled the theatre, actors and courtiers looking up to my lodge, waiting for my verdict upon a play I have barely watched.

I dart a glance at my stick, then at the crowd, trying to gather memories of the glimpses I have seen and decide if I like them or not, but it’s all pointless. Theatre is lost to me, just like chamber music or scenery painting. They should know that already.

They should stop trying.

So in the end, as always, before I make any decision, I look down at this man on his knees next to me, and ask once more one of my silent questions. He nods, then, just once, his stormy eyes lost in dark glee, and I raise my stick in the air, signaling that the play is worth being performed in every theatre of France.

A thunder of applause echoes in the vast hall, along with vivats and praises.

-“We thank Our graceful King!”

-“Long live the King!”

-“God bless Louis, le Juste ! »

And though those voices will always feel like honey poured on my heart, right now, I only want to be locked in a room alone with Armand and punish his insolence with my hand on the back of his neck.

But in my lover’s brilliant, disturbed mind, sickness is screaming louder than any pleasure I could give him, and soon enough, it’ll be louder than the very bond we share. I know it and he knows too, that’s why as he crawls away and leaves upon a last playful smirk for my flustered, blushing face, I have the leniency to let him go.

There will be time for him to return to me with meek eyes again, and beg for my forgiveness. He’ll crawl again, in tears this time, and will look up a me in devotion once more, like I am the sun in his own sky.

Like I am supreme and almighty.

More than a man.  _ Touching the divine.  _


End file.
